


No Quiznak Here

by SabbyWrites



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pidge is sneaky, Pining, Reader has female anatomy, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, i should be studying but I wrote this instead, in the second part at least, lance finally gets laid, reader is gender-neutral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites
Summary: Sometimes, with seven minutes in heaven, you just gotta shut your Quiznak. (Reader is gender-neutral but has female anatomy)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I've had this plot on my mind for some time now after finishing the first season of Voltron! I feel like Lance needs some love because COME ON. The guy is cute AF. 
> 
> The second part of this series should hopefully be up soon, though no promises because of how swamped I've been with schoolwork lately. I really hope you enjoy it, though, even if it's cliche as fuck and also a little rushed feeling.
> 
> Additionally, I would like to dedicate this to Lenny, who loves Lance and deserves a piece of his fine ass, and my dear friend Mom, who squealed with me about Klance after I started watching the show. I love you both dearly, and I hope you like the fic!
> 
> (Additional thanks to CC, who came up with both the title and summary of this work. Eat a chode.) 
> 
> xoxo Sabby

It’s a Friday night, and all Lance wants to be doing is sleeping. 

Don’t get him wrong. There’s nothing wrong with a little social “gathering”, as they’re known among the rest of the students. In fact, if this were any other week, Lance would probably already be on his third bottle of whatever mysterious drink someone managed to smuggle into the dorms with his arm slung around a pretty girl. 

But this isn’t just any week, and he supposes that this isn’t just any gathering. He’s in the middle of some random guy’s dorm for his birthday, surrounded by classmates of various intoxicated states. He regrets wearing a nice button-down and pants for this, because the heat of having so many people packed into a room is keeping him on edge. 

At least, that’s the excuse he gives to Hunk when he questions why he hasn’t been acting like himself tonight. He waves off the concern with a bit of badly-hidden anxiety in his replies, trying in vain to convince his friend that nothing is wrong, _really_ , just a little bit of heat that’s been keeping him from having fun. 

But both of them know it’s a lie. There _is_ something (or rather, some _one_ ) holding him back from really letting loose. 

“[Name]’s here.” Hunk says, rather unhelpfully, his words muffled by a handful of pretzels. Lance scowls and shoots him a glare that seems more pitiful than it does vicious. 

“I’m aware.” He says, trying not to focus on the way you tilt your head back and laugh at something some guy in your class whispers in your ear. Instinctively, though, a wave of jealousy crashes over him and his right hand clenches into a fist at his side. Hunk must notice this, because he shoots Lance a sympathetic look. 

“Look, dude, maybe you can just go over and say something to them? I mean, I’m sure [Name] will hear you out—”

“What am I supposed to say, Hunk?” Lance huffs, “ _Hey, [Name], sorry about the whole ‘I-was-your-best-friend-but-now-I’m-ignoring-you’ thing. Anyways, what’s up?_ ” 

“Well.” Hunk pauses for a moment. “Maybe that’s a good place to start.” 

Lance rolls his eyes, crossing his arms so tightly across his chest that it almost hurts. “Yeah, right, like that would work. I’m lucky they haven’t punched me off the planet yet.” 

“I’ll say.” He hears Hunk mutter under his breath, but before he can even think of a retort he feels someone tap on his shoulder. 

He nearly flies six feet into the air before he realizes that no, it isn’t you come to seek your revenge. It’s a cute girl— one from his classes, he thinks— and she’s holding one of the training helmets under an arm. Once she’s sure that she has the attention of both him and Hunk, she holds the helmet out with the opening facing upwards. Lance is startled to find a few slips of paper inside of it. 

“Numbers?” She asks. Lance furrows his eyebrows. 

“What?” 

“Numbers.” She repeats. “Didn’t you guys write down your numbers?”

“Numbers for what?” Lance says once more, his focus being torn away from you for a moment. “We were never told to write any—”

“Your friend said you guys would be up for a game of seven minutes in heaven.” The girl looks at him, puzzled. Lance shares a look with Hunk, processing the information just spoken to them, but before he can think of a reply, Pidge weaves in between the two of them. 

“Here.” The brunette drops a few folded slips of paper into the helmet. The girl, finding this to be sufficient, moves on to the next group of students. 

“Pidge.” Lance says once he finally finds his voice. “You didn’t just enter us in a game of seven minutes in heaven.”

“Uh, that’s exactly what I just did.” Pidge snorts, elbowing Lance in the side. “You forced me to come here, so I figured we could have some fun. Besides, I thought you of all people would be up for a game.” 

“Yeah, well now I kind of want to go.” Lance mutters, trying not to acknowledge the incredulous gaze that Pidge shoots him. 

“You dragged me here, made me stay even though we’re going to be exhausted tomorrow, and now you want to _leave_? Are you feeling well?”

“I think it’s because [Name] is here.” Hunk stage-whispers. Lance shoots him a glare. 

“Is not.” 

“Is too.” 

“Is _not_.”

“Is too!”

“It totally isn’t!” Lance pouts, crossing his arms again and looking over at Pidge and deciding that he can’t allow Hunk to be right. “What’s my number then?”

“Seventeen. Hunk, you’re Eighteen.” 

“And yours?”

“Me? I’m not playing.”

“ _Pidge_.” Lance snaps, more than a little anxious at the prospect of being in a closet with some random classmate— or, even worse, you. “You volunteered _us_ for this game but not yourself? How is that fair?”

Pidge snorts. “Life isn’t fair.” The small brunette takes the opportunity to shoot the both of them a sly smile. “Besides, I have a feeling that you’ll enjoy it.” 

__

Lance doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous in his life. Not during his first flight simulation, or any of his exams, or during his first kiss. In fact, all of that pales in comparison as he watches you dig around in the helmet for a piece of paper. Your gaze is intense, as if you’re looking for the _perfect_ one, and he feels a little bit of stress-sweat start to bead on his forehead. He discreetly wipes it away when nobody is looking. 

“Pick one, [Name]. You’re taking forever.” The guy that you were talking to earlier whines, and Lance notices that there’s a bit of anxiety in his voice as well. He wants to you to pick his number. Who wouldn’t? You’re amazing, almost unnaturally so, and Lance doesn’t blame him in the slightest. But the thought of you being close to someone else, kissing a guy that isn’t him, makes a cold knot of sadness and jealousy start to form in his stomach. _Why_ is he so stupid? _Why_ did he just start ignoring you instead of telling you how he—

“Seventeen.” Your voice sounds oddly triumphant. Lance blinks for a moment; time isn’t necessarily standing still, per say, but it feels like everything is moving in slow motion as it dawns on him. 

_Seventeen. His number._

“Who’s seventeen?” The girl from earlier asks. Lance doesn’t move, a little slack-jawed at his unimaginable (bad?) luck, so Pidge takes the opportunity to push him forward. 

“Lance is.” Pidge’s grin matches yours in that it’s oddly smug, as if there’s something between the two of you that Lance doesn’t know. Mutely, he nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth when you’re looking at him so intently, only a squeak will come out. 

“Into the closet you go, then!” The girl chirps, grabbing Lance’s arm and leading him to the back of the room. You follow on your own, still looking a little too satisfied for Lance’s taste, and he barely has time to voice any sort of protest before he’s being shoved unceremoniously into a closet. He turns just as you enter, closing the door behind you. A faint clicking noise tells him that someone on the other side has locked it. He takes a deep breath. 

“So.” You begin, and although he can tell that you’re trying to keep your tone light and amused, there’s a slight hint of hurt in it. He’s known you long enough to realize that. “Are you finally going to talk to me, or will we be spending our time in silence?” 

“I’m sorry.” He blurts. In the faint light coming from the crack under the door, he sees you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“I’m going to need a little bit more of an explanation before I forgive you.” You reply, and while your request is nothing but fair, it still makes his hands go a little clammy. He wipes them on his pants before he gets the nerve to speak again. 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“Lance, come on.” You shake your head. “Don’t lie.” 

“I’m not lying!”

“Yeah, like I believe that.” 

“Believe what you want!” He says, trying to sound exasperated, but there’s a tingling in his brain and a shakiness in his words that betrays how close he is to letting loose some word vomit. 

“Fine. Whatever. I guess I’ll do the talking then, since you can’t.” 

Oh, no. Oh _god_ no. Word vomit incoming. “Look, [Name], I know this might come as a shock to you—”

“Lance.” 

“—because we were friends for a while, and I didn’t want to make you _uncomfortable_ or anything—”

“Lance.” 

“—because you mean a lot to me, you really do, y’know? I really, really—”

“Lance, could you give me maybe five seconds here? Five seconds of your time. That’s all I’m asking.” 

He clamps his mouth shut, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re raising an eyebrow at him again with an exasperated smile curling at your mouth. A moment of silence stretches between the two of you, the intensity of it magnified by the fact that he knows Hunk probably has his ear pressed to the door. 

Once you seem satisfied that he won’t interrupt you, you let out a sigh. “I know.” 

Immediately, his mouth falls back open. “Wait, what?” 

“Lance, I know you like me. You’re not exactly discreet about it. I just wanted to see if you’d tell me without me having to force it out of you, but I guess not.” 

And with those words, a flash of panic sears through him. You know. You _know_. You’ve probably known this whole time, and the fact that you haven’t said anything until now lets him know that he’s probably in for a world of emotional hurt in the following seconds. After all, you’re [Name] [Surname], and it isn’t improbable that you’ve fallen for one of your many suitors. That would make more sense, anyways, because there’s no way a person like you would fall for your dorky, embarrassing (former) best friend, oh _no_ —

“Lance!” You grab him by the shoulders, effectively snapping him out of his panic-induced trance. “Are you just going to stand there and look at me?”

“I don’t know.” He says, rather dumbly, and he’s a little mortified when he sees a flicker of amusement in your eyes. Oh no. Now you’re _amused_ at the fact that he’s about to lose his mind? He wants to die, to melt into a puddle and sink through the floor, to never have to face you and your perfect smile or beautiful eyes ever again. 

You speak again, but he doesn’t respond, and your amusement gives way to a little bit of fear that your admittance might have rendered him catatonic. You sigh, adjusting your hands on his shoulders, before pulling him close and slanting your lips over his. 

He wishes that it was like the movies; with fireworks, with a more romantic confession, with a nice candlelit dinner and a movie preceding the much-awaited kiss. But here he is, cramped in a closet full of questionable fashion choices, kissing you. _Finally_. 

And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

For the first time that night, anxiety flies out the window. His hands immediately move to your cheeks, cupping them as he responds to the way your tongue flicks against his lips. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling the shoulders in the process, but he doesn’t care. You taste like fruit punch and sugar and something so undoubtedly _you_ that he feels almost drunk with giddiness. 

You’re smiling against his mouth, and even though it might be one of amusement at his fast reaction, he doesn’t care. He’s kissing you. That’s all he’s wanted since the day he met you, and now that he has you right in front of him, he doesn't think he’s even going to be able to stop. 

But he has to. For air, at least. You break apart and he sees the reverence in your eyes, the absolute adoration for him. Guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. 

“I’m sorry.” He breathes, “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have ignored you.” 

“Lance.” There’s a bit of a laugh to your voice, but it sounds utterly elated. “It’s okay. I know how much you suck with feelings.” 

He snorts. “Then why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I tried to. You were ignoring me.” You point out, voice a little deadpan, but before he can retort you’ve pulled him back down for another kiss. 

This time, he’s a little more clear-minded. Without the element of being surprised, he can focus on trying to win in your game of tonsil hockey; he rests his hands on your hips and pushes you gently backwards, until your back hits the wall with a muted thump. He distantly registers that there’s a few laughs coming from outside the closet, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. 

You lay one of your hands over his and pull it up, under the fabric of your shirt. He pulls back for a fraction of a moment, looking into your eyes with an unspoken question. You look up at him through your lashes. 

“We don’t have that much time left.” You remind him. He nods, caught between being dumbfounded and elated, before leaning back down to kiss you, his hand sneaking up your shirt and only stopping when the tops of his fingers hit the underside of your bra. After a brief moment of hesitation, they dive under it. 

You let out an appreciative noise, moving on instinct to press your skin more into his warm hand. One of his fingers skims over your nipple as your hands snake into his hair, pulling softly. He can feel his pants getting a little tight, a combination of the fact that he’s thought about something like this way too much and that you’re so responsive to his touch, but before he can get much further than groping you under your shirt and tangling his tongue with your own, he hears a faint click. 

The lock. 

The two of you only have a moment to break apart and try to make yourselves presentable before the door swings open, flooding the room with light. Lance is sure he’s as red as Keith’s stupid cropped jacket, but all eyes are on you. 

“We heard a thump earlier.” One of your friends says, waggling her eyebrows at you. Instead of rolling your eyes like you usually would, Lance is surprised to see you put a hand to your head. 

“Yeah. Hit my head when I was trying to walk in the dark.” You say, and he fights not to have an incredulous look cross over his face as he hears you lie so easily. Before he can pull you aside and ask about it, you grab his arm. “Have a headache, now. Lance told me I can have some of the Aspirin in his room.” 

You tug on his arm and he follows without hesitation. People are giving the two of you suspicious looks, but nobody seems to want to question your story. Lance avoids the smug looks that both Hunk and Pidge shoot him on his way out of the party. 

“We’ll be back later!” You call, though Lance has the feeling that you’re lying again. He doesn’t ask until he’s shut the door behind him, though, because something in his mind is telling him that he should be very, very excited. 

“Where are we _actually_ going?” He asks, once he’s sure it’s safe to do so. He hasn’t wiggled out of your grasp yet, allowing you to pull him along the hallway. 

You look over your shoulder at him, shooting him a smile that holds a rather exciting promise. 

“My bedroom.”


End file.
